Love Inspired January 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Her Unexpected Cowboy\His Ideal Match\The Rancher's Secret Son (50 page)

And maybe a little for his own sake.

Max slapped his notebook closed and began gathering the pens and highlighters they'd used. Emma had chosen pink, of course. She'd always loved pink. The one time he'd brought her flowers—okay, they'd been stolen from a neighbor's rosebush, and still had the thorns, but it still counted—he'd made sure to find pink ones. And not that pale, flimsy pink, either, that seemed like it'd fade before it could be appreciated. Emma needed bright pink. A statement color.

The kind that stained and lingered.

He headed for his office to put away their notes and almost ran into Mama Jeanie, who was coming out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Land sakes, boy! You trying to give an old woman a heart attack?” She planted both fists on her apron-clad hips and grinned to take the sting out. “Then who would cook supper for all those kids of yours?”

“The pizza joint in town.” He grinned back, grateful for the break from the heaviness that'd taken over the minute he'd popped the father question to Emma. He should have known better. But if he didn't ask, how could he find out? It was hardly something to look up on Google.

Mama Jeanie's wrinkled but wise face slowly drifted into a frown. “I saw that new counselor, Miss Emma, tearing out of here like a rabbit from a fox.” Her dark brows wrinkled deeper as she peered up at him with expectation. “What did the fox say?”

If anyone else had insinuated such a thing, he'd have been offended, and probably smarted off. But not to Mama Jeanie. Never to Mama Jeanie. He licked his lips, then shrugged. “Was something personal, apparently.” To put it mildly. He wondered if she saw through his attraction to Emma. The woman missed nothing. At least she stuck to the kitchen, because if she ever found that picture he'd kept of Emma and him all these years...

“If it was personal, then why were you nosing around in it?” She inched toward him, and despite the fact that she had to be almost six inches shorter, Max felt like backing up a step.

He resisted the urge and placed a friendly hand on Mama Jeanie's shoulder. “I'm just doing my job.” He tried to step around her to his office, but she sidestepped with the spryness of someone half her age.

“I do more around this camp than just cook, you know.” She crossed her arms, the dish towel dangling from two bony but capable fingers. “I observe. I listen. And I hear.”

“You just said that.”

“Uh-huh.” She waved her finger at him and grinned, her teeth stark white against her brown complexion. “Hearing and listening are not the same.” She leaned closer, and this time, he backed up. “You should try more of the latter.”

Well that was cryptic.

“Anyway.” She waved the towel like a white flag. “Turkey and dressing all right for the Thanksgiving dinner?”

He blinked in an effort to keep up, feeling as winded as if he'd just run a 10k. “Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Remember? Before this session started, you said it'd be nice to have a Thanksgiving feast the last week of camp. Before the real holiday began.”

Oh, yeah, he had said that—especially considering several of these kids came from home situations where they might not have a traditional meal. He nodded, grateful for the subject change. “Yes, that sounds perfect. With all the usual trimmings. If we need more for the grocery budget, let me know. I'll call the church.”

Broken Bend Church of Grace was their biggest supporter, along with several other wealthier families in the county. He'd get whatever donations were needed—when it came to the campers, he learned a long time ago to choke off any lingering traces of his self-pride. The kids were worth it.

“I've cooked on a shoestring budget for years, my boy. I'm not afraid of the challenge now.” She snapped the towel good-naturedly at him before heading back to her kitchen haven.

Max took the opportunity to dart inside his office and shut the door. He dumped the office supplies he'd been holding onto his desk and slumped against the corner of it. The wood dug into the leg of his jeans, but he didn't move. Mama Jeanie's words kept playing in his head, a strange echo to Emma's reaction to his question.

It all meant something. But what? What wasn't he hearing?

Emma's voice sounded next, as clear and vivid in his memories as the night he first told her he loved her. That had led to a more physical expression, but the words themselves—for the first time in his life—hadn't been spoken for that reason. No, he'd meant them.

And hadn't stopped meaning them yet.

There's nothing you need to know about him. It's for Cody's own good.

The panic behind her short sentences hinted at more to the story. Did that mean even Emma didn't know who Cody's father was? That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. No way. Not Emma. Or was she a victim? But if she'd been attacked, why the secrecy?

Nothing made sense.

God, some wisdom. Discernment. Something, please
. He bowed his head and prayed, but the words felt as if they didn't filter past the roof. And then he was struck with the certainty that it didn't matter. Whatever Emma had gone through or however she had lived in the years since they'd parted ways, it didn't really matter.

It didn't change his past or current feelings for her one iota. After all, whose past was squeaky clean? His was dirty enough to make even an infomercial cleaner give up. At least God hadn't given up on him. That was enough.

And that was why he needed to pay it forward. Whatever it took, he would make sure Emma knew that she was still worthwhile. A treasure. Priceless. To him, and to God.

And even to her son.

Chapter Fourteen

H
er mom knelt in the small garden to the left of the house, digging in the dirt with the same stained, floral-print gloves she'd worn when Emma was a child. Those gloves, with the tiny rosebuds once red and now faded pink, had been a fixture in the house for as long as Emma could remember. Lying on the counter by the sink where she'd washed her hands after gardening. Lying on the floor by her Bible in the living room, where she'd shucked them before having her evening quiet time. Lying on the porch swing where she'd taken her last tea break.

Emma watched her work for a moment, allowing the warmth of the sun on her shoulders to ease the chill of her conversation with Max. She'd almost bought her mother a new pair of gloves during her last Christmas at home, back before she left for college. Back before her father died. Back before she'd gotten involved with Max and changed her entire course of life.

Maybe familiar wasn't always so bad, after all.

She shoved her keys in her pocket and crossed the front yard to stand behind her mother.

“Emma?” Mom turned with a slight smile—or was it a grimace—and lifted one hand to shade her eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “What are you doing here?”

The question was innocent enough, as was the tone accompanying it, but it still dug in like a burr. She fought off a wave of frustration. Couldn't she just be visiting her mother while in town? Why did she need an explanation? She drew a deep breath, trying to convince herself it wasn't that bad, that her defenses were just up because of Max's probing.

But it felt like more than that. Her mom had never treated her the same way after she'd gotten pregnant.

Or maybe she'd never treated her mom the same way after.

“Just taking a break.” She folded her arms against her chest, then recognized the vibe the body language gave and forced herself to lower her hands to her sides. “Max said I could.”

No idea why she added that last part. As if she needed Max Ringgold's permission for anything. He'd been the reason she'd wound up where she was—and Cody, too. She hadn't asked Max for permission or help thirteen years ago, and the thought of starting now made the indignant, self-sufficient woman inside her cringe in her high-heeled career shoes.

And made the counselor inside her realize just how many issues she still had with various factors of Broken Bend.

Her mom rocked back, eyes narrowed, except this time it wasn't because of the sunshine. Guess Emma's intuition and knack for probing into others lives came from somewhere honest. “Let's go have tea.”

“No, Mom. You're gardening.” She wasn't about to interrupt her mother's routine, or she'd never hear the end of it—whether from her family or herself. Besides, despite Mom's strong belief, tea
didn't
cure everything. She dropped to her knees in the grass instead and gestured toward the rows of seeds. “Carry on.”

Mom adjusted one of her gloves, hesitated with another sharp glance and then obeyed, continuing to pluck weeds from the stubborn patch of earth surrounding her meticulous lines of soon-to-be-vegetables.

Emma tentatively reached for another section of weeds, in spite of her lack of gloves, and tore the skinny green intruders from the earth. She hated to sit and do nothing, and maybe if she worked, they wouldn't talk as much.

No such luck.

“How's Cody?”

Wasn't that the question of the hour? She schooled her expression into an indifferent mask, not willing to let her mom know just how much was riding on the next couple weeks. “He's as good as he can be. Making progress.”

Mom nodded as she shifted over to the next row, the pile of discarded weeds beside her growing taller as she worked. “And the girls you're counseling?”

Why was everyone shooting questions from the hip today? “Doing okay.” She ripped out another, surprised at the level of stress relief the simple action brought. She might not be able to make a difference where it counted, but she could make a difference to this garden. In both appearance and substance.

“So everyone is okay.”

Her mom's tone hinted at her disbelief, and Emma couldn't blame her. But that didn't mean she wanted to open the floodgates of confession, either. Because once the words—and the tears—started, they might not stop.

“It's a good thing you're there, then.”

Emma sat back and stretched her shoulders, bracing herself for something else hard to hear. “Why's that?”

Her mother continued working as if the tension between them didn't exist. And for her, maybe it didn't. She'd always leaned toward being oblivious. “You have a gift for making ‘okay' turn out better than okay.”

A compliment. From her mother. And it wasn't even Christmas.

Emma stared at the tiny rows of seeds, eagerly waiting to sprout. They had no idea the danger they'd been in from the weeds, no idea the death they'd be sure to experience had the gardener not come and tended them.

Just like Cody had yet to fully grasp the ramifications of his actions. Like Max had no idea the bomb she would eventually drop on his carefully reformed world.

Oblivious. Like she'd been before trading her innocence for a short-lived ride with rebellion. And all for the sake of what? Proving a point? Testing her limits? Escaping the supersticky label of “Good Girl”? All she'd done is trade it for another label she couldn't tear off.

Tears pricked her eyes, and her chest tightened. The floral print on her mom's gloves blurred into a pastel jumble. Suddenly, she wasn't a grown woman anymore with a successful practice in a big city. She was eighteen again, and scared, and alone—and overcome with feelings she couldn't identify or ignore.

Before she could stop herself, she reached out and grabbed her mother's arm.

Mom immediately stopped and turned, covering Emma's bare hand with her dirty gloved one, and raised her eyebrows without speaking. The acceptance in her gaze was nearly Emma's undoing, and she blurted out the truth for the first time in thirteen years.

“Max is Cody's father.”

* * *

Max wasn't sure if the art expression project Emma created had been pure genius or pure torture.

He squinted at the rows of easels before him, set up in the early-morning sunshine near the barn. They didn't have an indoor spot in the camp big enough to house all the campers and easels at one time that wouldn't suffer from paint splatters, so Luke and Tim spread some tarp on the grass, lined up folding chairs and let them go.

Max paced absently behind the rows of folding chairs, hanging back to give the teens room to create while keeping an eye out for Emma. He hadn't seen her return to Camp Hope yesterday, though he'd kept a subtle watch for her. She'd shown up at dinner as expected last night, though, relieving Faith to go home to her family. But after dinner, she'd taken the girls on to their next activity without giving him more than a passing nod. Breakfast had gone pretty much the same way.

He didn't know exactly how to smooth things over between them, but ignoring it didn't seem the best way to go. He wasn't sure which was worse—her avoiding him, or the awkward tension that hovered when they had to be in the same room. How was he going to meet his new goal if she refused to speak to him? Somehow, he had to show her he was legit. That she could trust him. Maybe she was right not to when they were younger. He hadn't been ready for a heart like hers.

But now...

He wanted the chance to earn it back. To show her that nothing was lost forever. That she and Cody would find their way out of this, with God at their side—and hopefully with him right there, too.

“That's beautiful, Katie.”

Emma's sudden voice to his left both warmed him and created shivers on the back of his neck, all at once. Max drew a deep breath to resist rushing to her side and slowly adjusted his cowboy hat so he wouldn't do something stupid—like sweep her in his arms.

Emma stood behind Katie's easel, where the perky redhead sat with paintbrush poised, sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She'd painted the barn beside them, complete with rolling golden hills of pasture. A dark blob on the farthest hilltop hinted at a horse. Or maybe a cow.

Max squinted. Maybe a rhino.

“I love the barn. Nice detail.”

Katie beamed under Emma's praise, and Max had the sudden urge to earn her compliments, as well. He joined them, hesitantly, as one would approach a startled stallion. “Emma's right. Very nice job.” With the exception of the unidentified hilltop creature, but hey. They weren't giving lessons here. They were letting the kids express themselves. Speaking of...he had the perfect excuse to talk to Emma.

Alone.

“Join me?” He touched her elbow, trying to ignore the hurt that radiated when she stiffened in response, and led her several yards away where they could talk quietly without being overheard. “What do you think so far?”

Panic laced her eyes before her gaze settled on the easels. “You mean about the paintings.”

“What else would I mean—” Max cut himself off. “Emma. Are we going to ignore the elephant here or go ahead and take care of him one bite at a time?”

A tiny smile teased the corners of her lips. Man, she was beautiful. “I think you're mixing metaphors.” A spark lit her eyes and ignited his stomach with memories.

“Some things never change.” He grinned. “Remember when I meant to say pretty as a picture, and I said pretty as a catcher?” He'd had a few in him at the time, but he clearly remembered the confused expression on Emma's face as they sat on the tailgate of his truck, stargazing. And the embarrassment that had flooded afterward. At least she'd thought his blunder was cute.

Or he'd thought she thought so.

Emma snorted, shoulder bumping him like old times. “You do realize by now that it's
picture,
not
pitcher?
”

“Come on, now. I'm not that hopeless.”

Her eyes met his and held for a moment before she directed her attention back to the teens.

Oops. Now what? The sadness in her expression nearly stole his breath. “What is it?” Did she still believe him that far gone, even after all he'd done in her absence? After all he'd cleaned up and changed and accomplished?

A light breeze brushed strands of hair over her eyes, blocking his view of her stoic profile. She didn't reach up to brush them back, so he did.

“Just...thinking.” She fluttered her hand to wave off the topic, as though it was as easily shooed as a summer bee. At least she didn't dodge his touch this time.

He turned so he faced her, giving her his full attention. She deserved nothing less. “Elephant, remember? Here's a fork.”

“That's seriously gross.” But the smile was back, and the sadness slightly dissipated. Mission accomplished—even if she still kept her profile to him. Then she sobered. “You're not hopeless, Max.”

Well, at least there was that. “You do realize the same is true for you?” He wanted to touch her again but knew she'd spook. Not to mention they stood behind ten teenagers all eager for gossip and rumors—including Emma's own son.

“I know.”

But did she really? Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her forearms with her hands. He started to shrug out of his zip-up hoodie, but she shook her head to stop him. “It wouldn't look right.”

“What? Teaching these guys how to act like a gentleman?” But he zipped it back up at the stubborn glint in her eye. Time to change the subject before he pushed her any farther into a corner. He'd gotten two smiles out of her and broken the iceberg that had risen between them last night. That'd have to be enough for now. “So, what do you think?” He gestured to the easels.

This time she launched right into her opinions, saving them from any more painful banter. “Katie's painting is detailed, like you said, which I feel lends to her personality. She likes things neat, together and orderly. But it's also bright and happy—how she feels right now. She's in a good place.”

He nodded, absorbing the picture. Maybe too good a place. Was anyone that happy at a camp for troubled teens? It wasn't like they were here for s'mores and Monopoly. He still felt as if something was missing from Katie's file, but he couldn't read information that wasn't there. Maybe he was just paranoid.

“What about Stacy's?” The abstract swirls of blues, greens and purples sort of lent to a teenaged version of van Gogh's
Starry Night
—Max's favorite painting for its cryptic beauty. He hoped Emma picked up a good impression from it, too. He worried about Stacy. Of all his students, she'd been the most blocked in their One4One talks.

“To me, it looks like twilight. And I think those splotches at the top are supposed to represent stars.” She tilted her head to get a better view. “But the important part to realize about hers is the color choice. The blue color family represents peace, relaxation and tranquility. That hints at how she's not nearly as hardened inside as she appears on the outside. There's a wall up, for sure—but the foundation of it doesn't go deep.” She hesitated. “Maybe one of us will reach her.”

“If anyone can, it's you.”

Emma winced at the compliment, as if she didn't fully believe it, but he didn't care. He'd keep sprinkling the truth on her until her confidence grew. He'd seen her with the girls and knew what she had already accomplished with them. She might not see it, but he did. So did God. Nothing was being wasted, however small it might seem on the surface.

Hopefully that same principle would remain true as he pursued her.

He wanted to ask about Cody's painting next but didn't dare. Then Emma's gaze lingered on it, and he knew from her quick intake of breath the diagnosis wasn't as favorable as the others. The painting in front of the boy contained a careful red circle that took up nearly the entire canvas. A thick black slant slashed across the center of the circle diagonally, the universal symbol for
no
.